Monday, October 27, 2014

I'm so excited to be a part of the Sweet Romance Anthology, Autumn's Kiss! My story, The Witching Well, is the first in a series of time travel romances. It's the story of Celia Quinn and Jason West, two business adversaries who drink the water of the Witching Well and find themselves transported back to Regency England. Their only hope for return to the 21st century is each other.

The Witching Well grew from a short story and turned into my novel, The Highwayman Incident. (Available December 1st.) It will be followed by the Cowboy Encounter and the Pirate Episode.

Here's my trivia question. Where does the water from the Witching Well take Celia and Jason? Remember, you need to leave comments on the form to be entered in the $50 grand prize. If you would like to win an e-book copy of my novella, Stuck With You, please leave a comment below.

Autumn's Kiss Reponse Form

Andie, real estate photographer, wanna-be philanthropist and blogger, is saving her pennies and dimes until she can afford to travel and shine a bright light on the world’s poor and needy. Whit, an investment banker and adventure travel magazine writer, wants nothing more than to escape his mother’s match-making schemes. When Andie breaks Whit’s glasses, he offers to forgive her debt if she’ll pose as his date to his brother’s wedding. It's the perfect mixture of business and pleasure, until business threatens to get in the way of a happily-ever-after neither Andie nor Whit could have ever imagined.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

For anyone interested, here is the third installment of what was formerly known as The Witching Well. That's what it's called in Autumn's Kiss, an anthology of ten sweet romance stories coming out in just three days. You can preorder the anthology here.

But the short story, The Witching Well, grew into first a novel (although a rather short one) which I renamed The Highwayman Incident. Just today I finished the first draft. It has an appointment with the editor for November 1st.

I only have an outline for the sequel. And I'm debating on how to release these. A month apart? Which means I would hold Highwayman back until the Cowboy was nearly finished? Or should I put Highwayman up as soon as possible so that the anthology readers can find him?

After a guy named Turner with a tow
truck gave him a lift home, Jason sat in front of the fireplace, watching the
yellow and red flames curl around the artificial logs.

“Hey, man.” Gabe startled Jason out of
his funk. Jason looked up at his cousin. He wasn’t used to sharing his space,
but tonight he could use some company.

“What’s with you?” Gabe stood in the
center of the room, his arms folded across his chest. “You look like someone
shot your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

And
I no longer have a tie or a handkerchief, he thought.

“Maybe you should get one so that he
could take that hang-dog look off your face.”

“Hang-dog.” Jason went back to studying
the fire. “I haven’t heard that since Uncle Lenny died. Do you ever think about
the things our parents used to say?”

Gabe went to the fridge, helped himself
to a Coke, popped the lid and settled on the sofa across from Jason. “Yeah,
like how my mom used to tell me not to be a boob.” Gabe looked down at his
muscular chest and grinned.

Jason leaned back in his chair and
closed his eyes. “Hey, that was way better than what my dad called me.”

“And what was that?”

“Panty-waste.”

Gabe chuckled.

“I mean, if you had to be a boob or a
panty-waste, which would you choose?” Jason asked.

“It
wasn’t until I was about twelve that I figured out that being told I looked
like the Wreck of the Hesperus wasn’t a compliment.” Gabe took a long swallow
of soda.

“Yeah, Aunt Georgia used to call me
that, too.” Jason lifted an eyelid to look over his cousin and best friend.
Gabe’s mother had been an Argentine beauty, and Gabe had inherited her dark
hair, eyes and chiseled features. And the long hours he devoted to his construction
company had helped him develop more than a healthy bank account. Jason doubted
any female would call Gabe a wreck anytime soon.

“Okay, so we established that we don’t
want to be boobs, panty-wastes, or shipcentwrecks, but that doesn’t explain
your hang-dogging.”

“Hang-dogging’s now a verb?”

“An action verb—and you’re doing it.”

Jason sat up and placed his elbows on
his knees. “Okay, something weird happened tonight.”

“I knew it.” Gabe took another long
swallow of Coke before pointing the bottle at Jason. “It’s that Quinn chick,
right? You saw her at the wedding.”

“We didn’t speak.” Jason got up, went
to the fridge and pulled out a soda of his own. He popped the lid. “At least
not there.” Sitting back down, he filled Gabe in on his parking lot adventures.

Gabe grinned, lay back against the sofa
and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “You don’t know what happened?”

“No.” He didn’t like the smile on his
cousin’s face. “I think someone drugged me.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.
Don’t you remember all those stories and rumors about the Witching Well?”

“The what?”

“The Witching Well?” Gabe laughed. “In
high school and junior high we used to go on rampages trying to find it.
Supposedly, the water from the Witching Well causes hallucinations.” Gabe took
a long drink from his soda. “There’s even speculation that the Witching Well
water could have played a part in the Witch Trials…which, as you know happened
just down the street.”

“And to our ancestors,” Jason added,
“hundreds of years ago.”

“Exactly.” Gabe pointed his soda at
Jason. “So, how is it you don’t know about the Witching Well?”

“I don’t believe in Witching Wells.
Maybe while you and your fellow thugs were busy raising hell in the woods, I
was bagging groceries.”

Gabe shook his head. “My poor cousin’s sad,
misspent youth.”

“Did you ever find it?”

“No. Later in an American history
class, I learned that this fungus grows on rye, wheat and barley and can cause
mental effects including mania or psychosis—hence—”

“All right, let’s drop your vocabulary.
Do you think it’s possible that somehow I came in contact with water from this Witching
Well?”

“No.”

“No?”

Gabe shook his head. “No. I think you’re
loco for Celia Quinn,” he said in a serious, somber tone.

Jason threw a pillow at Gabe’s head as
he stood to leave. “You’re moving out tomorrow.”

“The project hasn’t even started,” Gabe
argued.

“It’s starting right now,” Jason said
over his shoulder. And he wasn’t talking about Gabe’s demolishing the Dressy
Occasion shop.

“Where you going?” Gabe called after
him.

“Where are you going, is a better question.” Although Jason knew he would
never kick Gabe out, he thought it better to not let him know that.

Moments later, Jason sat at his
computer, searching for anything he could find about the hallucinogenic water
lurking in the New England soil.

CHAPTER FOUR

Becca frowned at her cookie crumbs as
if she could read them like tea leaves. “So, you’re telling me that you had a
dream that Jason West, the hunky lawyer that swindled your grandmother out of
her lease, was a highwayman.”

“That’s right,” Celia said, picking up
her cookie. She couldn’t eat it. It seemed like she hadn’t been able to eat for
weeks. “What does it mean?”

“Dreams don’t always have to mean
something,” Becca told her.

“Come on, you can do better than that!”
Celia shoved her cocoa mug across the table. “Why did you get a psychology
degree if you’re not going to help your friends?”

“There’s no help for you. Besides,
there’s no definitive explanation of dreams. There are a thousand and one
theories.” Becca bit into a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “I think the one
that best applies here is the one that claims we often dream about the things
that frighten us the most.”

Celia raked her fingers from her hair.
She had taken it out of its bridesmaid up-do, but it was still sticky from
hairspray. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. She looked
pale in the warmth of Becca’s sunny yellow kitchen. Taking a deep breath, Celia
tried to be calm. “It just seemed so real.” She touched her lips. “I can’t even
tell you how real.”

Setting down her mug, Becca studied
Celia. “Tell me, how does Jason make you feel?”

“In real life, you mean?”

Becca nodded. “Let’s go back to the
beginning, before you knew he was Clive Carson’s attorney.”

Celia looked out the window at the dark
night. “It’s wrong for me to say that, isn’t it? I should want to be at home,
helping my mom.”

“You are helping your mom,” Becca reminded her. “You drive her to all
her chemo appointments. You take your grandmother shopping, and you take her to
all her doctor appointments. Twice a
week you make them dinner, and you
run the shop.”

“Ran
the shop.”

“Seriously, if you did any more for
them you would sprout angel wings and be lifted up into heaven.”

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Celia looked up from her mutilated
cookie and saw her brother standing on the other side of the Dutch door. He
tapped on the window again. She could tell from his face that he considered her
less angelic than her friend.

Becca bounced from her chair to let
Joel inside.

He brushed past Becca, snagged a cookie
off the table, and shook it in Celia’s face. “I can’t believe you ditched like
that. You know you set yourself up for all the family table-talk, right? We’re
going to be discussing your anti-wedding behavior for months.”

Celia
ducked her head. “I was sick.”

Joel
slipped into the chair beside her, bit into the cookie, and studied her like
she was one of his lab rats. “What’s wrong with you? Besides the obvious, I
mean.”

Nothing like a brother to keep my ego nice, small and
manageable, Celia thought. She bit into her cookie
and glared at Joel. She had to admit he looked good in his suit, despite the
putrid pink bow-tie.

Probably
because they had different fathers, they didn’t look like siblings. Celia
looked like her dad, green-eyed, fair-skinned, and with red hair that clashed
with putrid pink, while Joel took after his dad, a dark-haired and swarthy
pirate-looking Italian. According to their mom, Joel’s dad looked much better
than he behaved. Mia was the only sibling that had inherited their mother’s blonde
hair, blue eyes and lily-white skin. The only family trait they all shared was
a red-hot temper that matched Celia’s hair.

“You’re not
still obsessing over Judson, are you?” Joel asked.

“Of course
not!” Celia said too quickly. “I don’t have time for guys.”

Becca
caught her eye, and Celia looked away.

“I know
that your kind like to think that my kind spend our days pining for the
perfect lover-boy, but really…we girls have much more important things going on
in our heads.”

“Who made you the spokesperson for the entire
female gender?” Joel chuckled and looked around the tiny kitchen. “Was there an
election I missed?” He pulled the plate of cookies in front of him.

Celia
reached over and slammed her fist down on his cookies, smashing them to crumbs.

“Hey!” Joel
and Becca complained at the same time.

Celia
brushed the crumbs off her hand and onto the table. “I am so stressed about the
shop, I can’t think about anything else.”

“That’s no
reason to destroy perfectly innocent cookies,” Joel said.

“Until I see the business booming, I’m done.”

“Done with
what?” Joel asked.

“Define
booming,” Becca said.

Celia gave Becca
a “whose-side-are-you-on” look, but knew it was wasted. Becca had been clearly
on Joel’s side since the first day they met. But seeing how Becca had been
twelve and Joel seventeen, Joel had never seen her the same way. And even now,
thirteen years later, Joel still wasn’t seeing it. Celia thought that for a
scientist, Joel wasn’t very observant.

“Look,
closing the shop will probably be the best thing that could ever happen to
you.” Joel picked up cookie crumbs and dribbled them into his mouth.

Anger pure
and white zipped through Celia. “Screw you, Joel.”

He held up
his hand to ward her off and crumbs fell to the table. “I’m just saying—”

Monday, October 20, 2014

Here are some of the things I heard/learned at the Vegas
Valley Book Festival. Because I mostly
wandered from booth to booth to tent to room, this is a regurgitation of my
notes. I apologize for not being able to give credit to who said what.

What does humor mean? It’s a broader view of life with
sensibilities and honesty. How does humor happen? You can always have a humorous
sidekick, like Chandler from Friends or the animal characters in a Disney
movie. You can also have a Ron Weasley character—the
average Joe whose job is point out all of the craziness going on around him.
There is the traditional slapstick of low brow confronting the snobs. But the
funniest situations are told with honesty, bravery and without social filters. Dark
situations often are the funniest, because it’s then that we need humor the
most.

All fiction is obligated to be interesting. It’s not enough
to be instructive, amusing or to have beautiful sentences.

(This is me, trapped in the ghetto of Women's Fiction. I'm not sure what that means, but I think it applies to me.)

I liked this phrase, “trapped in the ghetto of Women’s
Fiction.”I decided I need to transcend the genre. (That sounds pretentious,
doesn’t it? And I don’t have a clue how to do it. Except for keep on writing
the best, most interesting stories I can think of.)

Here’s some thoughts from Aimee Bender’s keynote address. Just
like my spillage of BJ Novak’s presentation (you can read that here) this is,
of course, colored by my interpretation.

Question of Intent

Happiness comes from having creative choices.

Writing valid pages. What is good belongs to no one, but to
the language. All things long to persist in their being. Writers are not in
command of their material. What is in our heads won’t look the same on the
page. It will be a curious, different thing. What we think doesn’t match what
we make. Ideas large and brilliant become small on the page. But what’s amazing
is that we make something else surprising.

“There is no book in your head.” No one else can see the
book in your mind. It must be written to be of value. Even if it’s squalid and
ugly, to be of worth, it must be told. And the act of sharing is living.

Are our desires getting in the way of living? Are we limited
by our goals? We need to wake up to the here and now of our lives and
celebrate. We need to let things happen, be open to opportunities, and let go
of expectations that aren’t grounded in reality. If we refuse to do so, we can
never be happy.

Can you plan a life? When does intention interfere?
Invention is born in boredom. We must court boredom, because there is something
beautiful and surprising on the other side.

No one has one story bursting to be set free. Waiting for
the one perfect story limits our creativity. We need time to find the stories
tucked away in our minds and then we must coax them forward without prejudgment.

Let the page teach you about yourself. Flannery O’Conner
said, “Your beliefs are the light by which you see, but they are not what you
see.” We can’t escape the bedrock of who we are, even if we really, really want
to be someone different on the page, we can’t. We might not intend to weave
ourselves into our stories, but there we are. Our beliefs light our work.

Let the work and the world happen.

(I want to put in a disclaimer here. The festival and the workshops were all free and open to the public. I do not feel even a tiny bit of guilt for sharing my notes, because I hope that if anyone should happen to take notes during one of my talks and that should they feel compelled to share them, I hope that they will in the most open and public manner possible. Remember, as Aimee Bender said, sharing is living. There are no notes inside our heads. To be of value, they have to be shared. I once asked someone to share their notes from a workshop they attended, and they refused to do so because I hadn't attended the workshop. To share, in their opinion, was to somehow steal from the presentation. I really disagree. Of course, the notes of one attendee can't be the same as actually attending the workshop, because each attendee will come home with their own impression and spin. It's like saying I can't tell you about that movie, because you didn't pay your $12. to watch it. Sharing is living.)

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Thursday night, I met BJ Novak in the Clark County
Library. He probably won't remember me,
although I took a front and center seat, but I kept careful notes, and by
writing and sharing his thoughts, I hope I'll remember some of what he said to
me (and about 300 others.)

The following are paraphrases of his thoughts, but of
course, they're spun with my own take of the conversation. I guess it's fair to
say, here is BJ Novak according to Kristy.

Speaking of Las Vegas, "This is a great place to just
focus on literature. Not much else going on."

"The more intelligent your writing, the mainstream and
popular it will be."

"Write for the kid sitting next you. Everything else is
just homework."

The importance of truth in comedy. "Everything has to
come from truth first and be funny second. Everything has to feel like a
real moment that could really happen to
a real person."

"Reading should be your way to rebellion--your way to
go where ever you want and do anything you want."

Some of his favorite lines. (Not all are his.)

"Magnets are interesting enough--they don't need to be
tarted up."

Michael Scott when asked if it was more important to be
loved or feared. "Easy, both. I want people to fear how much they love me."

"Battered women--sounds delicious, but that doesn't
make it right." (That was his.)

On the writing craft:

He always carries a notebook to jot down impressions and
thoughts.

The blue sky period--where there are no bad ideas, no
contradictions and everything and anything can fly.

My favorite moment of the night--he invited all of the
children in the audience up to the stage and read from his bestselling book, The Book with No Pictures. When asked the legacy he wanted to leave for his
grandchildren, he said he hopes to be remembered for his children's book--where he showed it was possible to love
just words. All we need are words and our own imaginations.

He said that when he gets to Heaven and meets God, he hopes that God will say to him,
"Everyone is here." (That's my hope, too.)

(I'm also hoping Mr. Novak will read this and know that I'm
really grateful for the night we shared. And I hope he won't feel like I butchered his presentation.)

Thursday, October 16, 2014

I'm so excited. In a few days, the Authors of Main Street will re-release our boxed set, Christmas on Main Street, and to sweeten an already sweet deal (13 books by 13 authors for .99) we're going to also offer a companion decorating book. This is the "craft" I'll be featuring.

Some will say it's not a craft, per se, but I made mine and I love it. Even it's merely a fill in the blank sort of project. No sewing, paints, or glue required.

This is in my hallway. Here's the chart close up.

I actually drew this chart and with a ruler and compass, it's pretty easy. It goes back 8 generations. I used a the computer to print out the words (not the names, you'll have to do that by hand) and then took it to Staples to have it copied on a nice sheet of paper. (I don't have a copy machine this size.)

But, if you don't want to draw your own fan, you can find one already made at https://familysearch.org/blog/en/printing-fan-chart/. There are also a number of charts you can find online. Just google genealogy fan chart. This is the same site where you can research your ancestors. But I have to warn you, once you start you may get addicted and up with something like this:

This is hard to see, but it's my husband's family. Their line has been followed all the way back to Adam and Eve. (I'm sure mistakes have been made.)

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

I spent the first weekend of October with my family in Park City, Utah. I love the fall season with it's bright colors and cold, crisp air. I love General Conference when Mormons from all over the world gather to hear from our church leaders, and I love sharing this time with my husband and children.

I spent the next weekend at my dad's house in Arlington, Washington. My Uncle died--you can read about that here: anyone-lived-in-pretty-how-town I went to his funeral, and heard wonderful messages about a life beyond this one. My favorite talk was about having a hope when all hope is gone and living and leaning on the promises of our hopes being fulfilled in a life beyond the grave. I also spent time with my dad, picked apples and made apple cider.

Next weekend, I'm going to Las Vegas. Mostly, I'm going to spend time with my daughter and her family (and I love them very, very much) but I'm also going because it's the Las Vegas Book Festival. My book Beyond the Fortuneteller's Tent is a finalist in the I Heart Indies Contest, and the winner will be announced at the festival. I'm also looking forward to hearing from amazingly talented writers.

Three weekends. Each filled with their own unique blessings, reminding me that I don't have to win a contest to feel incredibly loved and blessed.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Are we recognized for who we are by the clothes we wear? Just
like a priest is recognizable by his collar, or a policeman by his uniform, or
a scientist by his lab jacket, we also, sometimes without much thought, put on
a daily uniform that tells the world who we are.

And sometimes this can go horribly awry. A few examples:

Once when my children were little, I walked into church with
the back of my skirt stuck up so that I flashed my whole pantyhose and panties
clad bottom to the congregation. Some kind woman took my arm and hurried me into
the bathroom. Turns out, I must have sat on a half-eaten tootsie-pop.

Fast forward about ten years and I’m hurrying to the high
school for back to school night. There’s one teacher that I really needed to
speak with. I didn’t have time for dinner so I grabbed an Almond Joy candy bar
from someone’s Halloween bag and I eat it on the way. Turns out, I only ate
half. The other half had fallen into my lap and melted between thighs, staining
my white pants. Because the high school was about twenty minutes from our
house, I couldn’t go home to change. But I also wasn’t about to walk around the
school with a brown stain on the crotch of my pants, so I hurried into the nearby
mall, prayed I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and bought the first thing I could
find.

Last example, once when my husband had a business boondoggle
in San Francisco, we decided to drive. Half way through the eight hour trip, we
stopped for lunch and ate it at a park. I took off my shoes…(Do I really need
to finish this story?) It ends with me having to walk into a very expensive
hotel barefoot.

One of the few lectures I attended and enjoyed with my
husband when he was in graduate school was given by a professor of
organizational behavior on “dress for success--” a popular buzz-phrase in the
1980s. (Remember power ties?) He said that the reason the business world wears
dark boring suits is so that nothing in their appearance would detract from
their ideas. What you wear should never call attention from what you have to
say. Your shoes should never receive more admiration than your thoughts.

When Larry worked in Midtown New York, we lived in the
commuter town, Darien, Ct. A hefty portion of the town’s population daily
commuted to the city. We lived about two blocks from the train station and
Larry walked to and from the station, but sometimes he would run. Not because
he was late, but because he was cold and running was much faster than walking.
After a while, he learned to stop and walk if he saw a car approaching because,
inevitably, the driver of the car would assume he was late for his train and stop
and offer him a ride. Since he is unsocial by nature, this embarrassed him.
Darien is a beautiful community—we had wonderful neighbors there, but I
wondered if Larry had replaced his suit, tie and brief case for jeans, a
corduroy jacket and a backpack—would the cars of Darien have stopped and
offered him a ride? No, probably not. Right or wrong, assumptions are made by
the clothes we wear.

New York City investment bankers follow a strict uniform
code. The earlier the commute, the stricter the code. In the
fall—raincoats--and then one late autumn day wool overcoats replace the
raincoats…their attire is far more predictable than the stock markets. For a
good reason, remember the advice of the organizational behavior
professor--never let your appearance detract from what you have to say. Don’t
try to hide behind your clothes.

In New York City, I saw women wearing tea length fur coats
to the Macy Day Thanksgiving parade. I have never seen women wearing fur to the
Rose Parade in Pasadena, California. Again, for a variety of good reasons, but
the overriding reason, the one I want to talk about, is that a fur coat in
California would be as out of place as a pair of flip-flops on the stock
exchange floor.

If you’re a den mother, wear the lemon yellow shirt with pride.
If you’re a yogi, wear your leotard. It’s worth the cost—whatever that is--to
let the world know who you are, what your purpose is, and that you need to be
taken seriously, because your daily work is seriously important.

Fortunately, for me, I write novels. This means that I get
to spend the day in fuzzy pajamas. On the days I wear clothes, I can slouch in
pants with holes in the knees and sweaters that grow fuzz balls, but, every
once in awhile, I need to look like a respectable, contributing member of
society. Sometimes, although usually not, I want to be taken seriously and when
I do—I dust off my best clothes and put them on. And although the suit doesn’t
change who I am inside and underneath, I can move and act with confidence,
knowing that the skirt won’t slip and show my white belly, or that the blouse
won’t shift and expose my bra strap. Well cut clothes can do that for you and
when you need them, it’s nice to know you have them at the ready. I’ve heard it
said that fashion is all about what doesn’t itch, but sometimes, every once in
a while, it’s also about looking your best so that you can share your most
brilliant ideas without worrying about your outward appearance—which should
never outshine who you are on the inside.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Celia lifted her head off the table,
dazed. She must have fallen asleep. How embarrassing. She checked the
tablecloth to make sure she hadn’t been drooling. It felt dry. What if she had
snored? She cast a nervous glance around.

The party continued as if she had never
left/slept. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the band was even playing the
same song. That wasn’t possible. The dream seemed longer than a few seconds, more
than a few minutes even. But no one was looking or staring at her.

Becca was chatting up some guy over by
the bar. Lacey had her arms wrapped around someone wearing a purple bow-tie and
they moved to the music. Celia twisted around and caught the gaze of Jason West.

Flushing, she looked away. Touching her
cheeks, she tried to quellthe heat flaming her
face. So grateful no one, and by no one she meant Jason West, could read her
thoughts, Celia slipped off her pinchy shoes and fled.

Later, she would have to try and
explain her sudden departure to her mom and sister. But there were some things
she would never be able to explain. Or understand.

Like the garter pressing something sharp into
her upper thigh.

CHAPTER THREE

Jason followed Celia outside, but he
hated himself for it. He didn’t know what he would say if she would just turn
around and talk to him…or look at him with anything other than loathing.
Standing in the soft moonlight, he watched her move away from him. He wasn’t
used to rejection, and her contempt stung.

The sign hanging from the street lamp
read, The Hunt Club. The Club, once a gentleman’s hunting and fishing playground,
had been converted to a country club sometime within the last century. Fox and
deer roamed much more freely now that the humans had replaced their rifles with
golf carts and tennis racquets. Watching Celia pass through the dark gardens to
the parking lot, Jason wished he had something, anything, that could make her
stay.

She walked with a strange gait, and he
blamed her lack of grace on her shoes. Knowing Mia, she had probably picked out
bridesmaids shoes that matched the dresses in hideousness.

When Celia climbed in her Toyota
Corolla, Jason headed for his Porsche. He sat behind the wheel for a moment
before starting the engine.

The car sputtered and died.

He popped the hood and went to inspect.
Everything reeked of fuel as if someone had spilled a jug of lighter fluid. He
had a mental image of his car exploding into flames.

“Problems?” A vaguely familiar looking
man in a dark suit approached.

Jason scratched his head. “I don’t know
what’s wrong with it.” Suspicious, he got back behind the wheel to check the
gas gage. “It says it’s out of gas, but that’s ridiculous. I filled it up on my
way here.”

The stranger smiled and pointed the
water bottle in his hand to the dark spot beneath the Porsche. “Careful, don’t
light a match.”

Climbing back out of his car, Jason studied
the pool oozing down the lot and softly swore.

“Here,” the man said, handing him the
water. “You might need this.”

Jason looked at the bottle and then at
all the cars in the lot. “If someone drops a light—this isn’t going to help.”

The man nodded and laughed. “You’d be
surprised. Do you need me to call someone?”

“No, I got it.” Jason pushed buttons for
roadside assistance on his phone.

The man looked like he wanted to say
more, but after a long moment, he waved goodbye and headed for the shadowy
corner of the lot.

While Jason waited for the tow, he had an
itchy feeling on the back of his neck of being watched. He tried to ignore it,
but his thoughts grew wary and suspicious. His gaze flicked around the parking
lot before landing on the dark woods just beyond the pale street lights. The
trees reached for the star studded sky and blackberry bushes, ferns and
brambles clustered beneath their canopy. It would be an easy place to hide. Did
his car mysteriously spring a fuel leak, or had the line been cut? And who
would do such a thing? Celia Quinn?

Celia was the only person he knew that
hated him, but she wouldn’t do this. Would she? He spent a few entertaining
moments imagining her crawling beneath his car, her long legs poking out, the
pink shoes pointing to the sky. Would she know how to find the fuel line?

No. There was no way.

She would have been dirty and smelling
of gas, but instead she’d been sparkling and smelling of perfume. Jason
dismissed all his dark thoughts, unscrewed the lid of the water bottle and took
a long drink.

Just before he passed out, he thought
he heard twigs breaking in the nearby woods.

#

Resisting the urge to lift her skirts and
inspect her leg, Celia limped toward the parking lot. She felt the gaze of
Jason the elder and Jason the rat-fink on her back as she passed through the
crowd.

A touch on her arm. “Are you okay?” her
brother, Joel asked. “You’re walking funny.”

She pulled away from him and shook her
head, refusing to give him an answer. Doing her best to ignore the pain in her
thigh, she held her head up, braced her shoulders and tried to sail out the
door.

Her tension eased when she hit the lot.
The dark night steadied her. Sanity returned. The pain in her leg had to be
phantom pain—the sort that plagued amputees—the all-in-your-head sort.

She waited until she got into the
Corolla to lift her skirts.

Emeralds sparkled in the moonlight.

No. No. No.

Nothing about that little episode could
be true. And yet, here were the emeralds to argue differently. After easing the
necklace out from under the garter, she studied it. She really didn’t know
anything about precious gems, but the size of these stones told her that if
they were real they needed to be kept somewhere safe. Not knowing what else to
do, she shoved them in the glove compartment and locked it.

Gripping the wheel, she tried to make
herself put the car in drive, but a swelling nausea kept her in park. She
rolled down the window and took a deep breath of the clean night air. The smell
of pine, autumn leaves, and a nearby river filled her lungs. She leaned back,
closed her eyes and drifted back in time.

#

Jason stood in a shaft of moonlight
shining through the trees. His head thundered as if he’d been whacked by a
heavy board…or a woman wielding a tree limb.

What
the hell?

“Celia!” he burst out and flung his
arms to cover his head. “Come on, I know you’re mad but murder is illegal…”

She swung the tree branch at him again.
Chuckling came from behind him. Three men stood in the shadows, obviously
enjoying the show. He wrenched the branch from Celia’s hands and was about to
turn it loose on the three spectators when one of them said, “Getting bruised
by a dame, boss?”

Boss?

Jason stood up straight, his mind trying
to fit together all the missing pieces of this puzzle. Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw Celia lunge for a revolver lying at his feet.

The thing looked deadly, despite its
obvious antiquity. Jason’s instincts took over. His left arm shot out, knocking
the revolver back to the dirt. He hit her with all his weight, and they tumbled
to the ground. Everything felt soft about her, but not the hard, cold reality
of the gun pressed against his back. He jumped to his feet, grabbed the pistol,
and shoved it in his waistband. She looked
smashed and yet beautiful among the fallen autumn leaves.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes and
glared up at him. He blinked back at her, confusion returning. Where had the
horses and carriage come from? Who was screaming in the carriage? He pulled out
his best court defense voice. “Celia, I don’t know what this is about.”

She scrambled up and brushed off her
hideous dress. “You…” she paused as if searching for the right word, “…accosted me!”

“I
accosted you?”

Celia placed her hands on her hips.
“Yeah, you were all,” she dropped her voice and did a fair imitation of him, “stand and deliver…”

Jason would have laughed on any other
occasion.

“Stand and deliver? Seriously?” Jason
tried to rake his fingers through his hair. He had forgotten he still held the
gun. He studied it. It looked real. He let it dangle at his side, although he
did wonder what he would do if she tried to whack him with another tree limb.
“What did you do to my car?”

“Your car?” Celia rolled to her toes.
“Look around you. No cars. Just this fancy carriage, complete with horses.”

Jason glanced around, his finger
twitching on the trigger. He wanted to shoot something.

“Your clothes. Two seconds ago, you
were wearing a cape and mask,” she waved her hand near her throat, “and a
yellow cravat.”

“I would never wear a cravat.”

“But you were.” She looked serious and
pointed over his shoulder. “Then you went into the woods. And now your back in
your typical Jason attire.”

“My typical Jason attire? Are you
mocking my suits?”

“No. I like your suits. But you know,
that cape and mask—and especially the cravat—were over the top.”

This was an elaborate, cruel hoax. She must
want to get back at him for getting her grandmother to sign over the lease, and
she staged this…this… his mind skipped and stuttered over all things that
didn’t make sense. Horses, carriage, three men in really dirty costumes…

But she was still Celia, the woman who
hated him, and she still wore that putrid pink dress, so she had somehow
drugged him…slipped something into his drink…carried him to the middle of the
woods…

Really? Was she that crazy? Or that
strong?

“That’s it! I’m done. This was
entertaining…until you hit me in the head with a tree, and tried to shoot me.”
He stepped forward and grabbed her by the wrists.

She didn’t even try to wiggle away. “I
never tried to shoot you.”

Jason nodded. “Attempted murder, a capital
offense.”

“You pointed a gun at me! And you tried
to rob me.”

“Rob you? Of what?”

Celia angled toward him, her eyes
menacing and mean. “I don’t know. You’ve already taken everything I have of any
value!”

She snorted. “That’s very noble
sounding, coming from a man who two minutes ago was willing to shoot an old
woman for her ruby ring.”

“What are you talking about?” Then he decided
he didn’t care. He plucked the handkerchief from his suit pocket. “Never mind.
No more talking!” He shoved the handkerchief in her mouth.

Celia coughed and grunted while Jason pinned
her wrists in his hand.

Now
what am I going to do with her? He thought as he used his tie to bind
her wrists together.

Jason took in the dark night, the
carriage, the horses and his thoughts scrambled. The last thing he remembered,
before Celia and the nightmare began, he had been in his car waiting for roadside
assistance.

He must have fallen asleep.

“This isn’t real, is it?” he asked
Celia.

She shrugged and made gagging noises.

“This is a dream, right? I’m dreaming.”

He took Celia’s bound wrists, drew her
to him and pulled the handkerchief out of her mouth.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“If this is a dream…my dream…then I’m
going to kiss you.” And he did.

#

Jason woke beside his car. His head still
hurt, but instead of a 17th-century revolver jabbing in his back, he
found a large rock. Slowly, he turned to his side, and pushed himself up to a sitting
position.

Anyone leaving the wedding would think
him drunk. Maybe he was. He tried to remember how much he had to drink, but
couldn’t. It couldn’t have been that much, he told himself. Propping up his
knees and folding his arms, he placed his head in his hands. Nothing like this
had ever happened to him before. While his friends had boozed through college,
he’d been too busy working, studying, and trying to up his score on the LSAT.
In law school, he’d been on law review, moot court…passing out in a parking lot
was not his thing.